‘Unless you can fix Riley’s love life, we’re good.’ Kennedy sniggers and the Texan returns her punch in the arm, only this one has more juice behind it.
‘Watch out!’ She grabs her bicep and whines. ‘This arm is a precious appendage.’
Riley squints with faux outrage. ‘I’ll give you a precious appendage.’
‘I’m definitely not the one to help with romantic problems,’ I assure them as the pair continue to poke at each other like a couple of kids. ‘Or appendages, precious or otherwise.’
‘Oh really?’ Kennedy pulls a notebook from her book bag and thrusts it at me. ‘Sounds to me like we need to get a drink after the social, girl. I know it’s borderline pointless but gimme your number. Address too.’
I scribble it out obediently, adding my last name and room and floor number at Carpenter. ‘For the invitation,’ I say. ‘Y’all are in halls?’
‘Walsh, third floor,’ Kenney replies. ‘Riley’s downstairs on the first.’
‘Hate to break this up but I only have a half hour before mytutorial, and I have a million books to pick up.’ Riley produces a slip of paper from the pocket of her sweatpants and frowns. ‘Philosophy waits for no man.’
‘That’s like, very deep,’ Kennedy deadpans. ‘Catch you later, Mia.’
‘See y’all later,’ I reply, waving them off into the stacks. The peace of the library surrounds me and I let it. With no one around, I close my eyes and let the hush fill in all the blank spaces in my mind. It’s the first time in a long time, I’ve been alone with my thoughts and for once, it isn’t a frightening prospect.
Filled with a quiet calm, I go back to scanning in the stack of returned books Del left for me to process as the library doors open and a stream of students pour in. Dr Orenson’s lecture must be out.
‘Hi, excuse me?’
A guy with pink hair and thick black-rimmed glasses sidles up to the desk, clutching a leather book bag. ‘I’m looking for a copy ofA History of Women Philosophersby Mary Ellen Waithe. Can you help me?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, tapping at the computer keyboard with a smile. ‘I think I can.’
52
Ethan
It’s been three days and I’m still sleeping in Assad’s room, or at least pretending to. I’m exhausted all day but when night rolls around, I’m totally wired, no chance of sleep. Thoughts of Mia, Breanna, Chris, Clive, all the people I have disappointed and could still disappoint prodding me awake. Any second now the axe could fall. A braver man would go to Clive himself, confess, get it over with, but I can’t. I just can’t. The team is the only thing keeping me sane. Outside of lectures, tutorials and training, I behave like a ghost. Insubstantial and disconnected. It’s the only way I know how to keep it all together, just like summer all over again.
‘Taylor.’
Clive gives me the nod as I’m stuffing my things into my duffel at the end of training and I trudge behind him into his office.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Is that right?’ He sits in the chair behind his desk. I stay where I am in the doorway. ‘Because I thought I’d signed a striker and a captain, not a shop dummy in a pair of Predators.’
‘I wear Nikes,’ I say, but he’s not interested.
‘Whatever’s going on, pack it up or get it dealt with. Tomorrowis a big game, I need you focused, the boys deserve your best. Do I make myself understood?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, staring at my shoes. ‘I got it.’
‘Then get out and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow when you’ve got your head on straight.’
And like any good soldier, I do as I’m told.
Even though the weather has been shitty all week, I’ve been spending a lot of time outside. Mostly down by the river, watching the crew team train. There’s a spot to the right of the boathouse where my cell phone gets enough reception to log on and check in on everyone back home from my newly created finsta. It’s social media self-harm, watching everyone else go on with their lives, but I still scroll through through my own photos, anything from before July. It hurts to look at the way things were, but I deserve it. I can’t believe I don’t have any pictures of Mia, just memories, but they’re sharp enough to cut deeper than a bunch of pixels on a screen.
I’m pathetic. Almost twenty-one and falling apart. At my age, my mom was married to my dad, their paths chosen, futures already set in motion. If you’d asked me six months ago, I’d have said I was just as locked in but now I’m a split second away from everything imploding. If he could see me now, huddled on a river bank, almost in tears, my dad would tear me apart. But my mom … maybe my mom would at least try to understand. I bring up my contacts and hit the call button. I don’t need her to lie to me and pretend everything’s going to be okay, I just need to hear a familiar voice. The call connects and someone answers the phone on the second ring.
‘Hello?’
